


Grief

by 71TeenIdles



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dead Aunt May, Domestic Avengers, Homeless Peter Parker, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Peter Parker, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'll add more tags later, I'm so sorry for what I'm about to do, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Iron Dad, May is Dead, Mentioned Skip Westcott, Multi, Peter Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter is a drug addict, Some Humor, Underage Drug Use, but not that much because it hurts to write, cameos from deadpool, cameos from the defenders, i got much better at tagging if you couldn't tell, i was listing to watership down when i wrote this, no beta we die like men, now the words are all fancy and the writing is pretty, peter lives on the streets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21643759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/71TeenIdles/pseuds/71TeenIdles
Summary: New York has their graves.Ben, Mary, Richard, May.Peter is coping, heathy ways be damned.no one's around to care, why should he?Peter Parker takes jobs to deliver letters from fugitives, when a certain dark man with long hair hands him a letter. where will it lead?((this was a previously abandon fic but I started it back up again.))
Relationships: Clint Barton & Peter Parker, Jack Hammer & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker & Everyone, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker & Sam Wilson, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, if you squint
Comments: 11
Kudos: 134





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> this story will have some triggering themes.  
> alcohol and drug use are among them.

Grief changes people.

Grief changed peter. 

Grief is changing everything he once loved, taking away things he enjoyed.

Grief is taking away his home, his apartment, his city, his friends.

Grief is taking away spiderman.

He cant move to Arizona because Arizona doesn’t need spider-man. 

New York needs spider-man and _peter needs new york._

New York has their graves.

Ben, Mary, Richard, _May._

All the parkers buried in the same spot. All their graves yell, loud and defined, they call with every whisper and shout, 

and if peter carries on this way, 

he will answer. 


	2. PART ONE: Peter Parker, origins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RUN

**RUN** runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun take a left, runrunrunrun, right, sprit run faster LOOK OUT! 

  


**STOP!** TAKE A LEFT! 

  


_ Run… _

  


~~They’re chasing you,~~

  


GET OUT OF THE STREET! 

  


_ God, he has a gun,  _

  


**Don’tgetshotdon’tgetshotdon’tgetshotdon’tgetshot**

  


Hidehidehidehidehidehide

  


You’re close, just **calm down.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all will make sense soon.


	3. PART ONE: Peter Parker, origins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RUN

**RUN** runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun take a left, runrunrunrun, right, sprit run faster LOOK OUT! 

**STOP!** TAKE A LEFT! 

_ Run… _

~~They’re chasing you,~~

GET OUT OF THE STREET! 

_ God, he has a gun,  _

**Don’tgetshotdon’tgetshotdon’tgetshotdon’tgetshot**

Hidehidehidehidehidehide

You’re close, just **calm down.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all will make sense soon.


	4. the job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s Peter Parker, and he’s okay...
> 
> “There’s two guys outside for you, a tall guy with long hair and a blonde guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ends pretty funny so stick around! this fic was abandon for a while, but I started it back up! 
> 
> trigger warnings are-  
> drug use  
> and alcohol use.

The streets of Queens aren’t nice. 

They bite like stray cats, the cold freezes people to death, and if you weren’t a dealer? No one wants you around. 

No one wants Peter Parker around, not Stark. Not new york. 

And when the city doesn’t want you, you make a goddamn hole for yourself.

And that’s what Peter does. 

He runs odd jobs mostly. A letter from a fugitive to a family. To drugs, stolen or manufactured by mobs or anything. 

This was Peter Parker's hole in the city, people pay him the bare minimum and he works his ass off getting things to people. 

There’s no time for vigilantism, and if what he does goes against spider-man's morals, then maybe he just can’t do it anymore. 

Spider-Man has a place in this city, amongst heroes and vigilantes alike. 

Peter Parker has a hole, but it’s his…

* * *

He turns, sharp rights and leaves as his mind screams at him. 

He ducks into an alley, and they pass him.

A weight lifts off his shoulders, he looks at the orange bottle in his hands. Clutching it close to his heart. 

‘Is it really worth it?’ 

He almost got shot, they had guns. He could have gotten shot. 

His anxiety runs rapidly as he struggles to open the lid

He breathes out and shakes some into his hand as dry swallows it. 

Everything slows down, and maybe he’s okay. He breathes in and out. 

He’s Peter Parker, and he’s okay. 

After a few minutes, he leaves the alley, clutching his tattered messenger bag with the strength of thor. 

He runs with the burning in his legs, in his head and he runs the memory out of his head. Flashes of people he loved, He feels tears run down his face and he remembers that nobody cares about him anymore. Wind rushes past him.

Buildings pass in a rush, with every light he passes he sees her. 

Everywhere he looks, in every cardigan and every whiff of burnt food. 

And every ruffle of his hair, and he tears every memory of her out of his brain, because if he can’t remember, then he can pretend that she never existed. 

That the parker curse didn’t take another life away from him, that death didn’t pry her away in the form of scalding hot flames that lick up walls. The same walls that close in on him, heat radiating from the fire. 

Every memory hurts, burns, spreading welts and aches all over his skin, screaming stop stop stop stop stop. 

When the walls of his childhood room go back to the way they were, and he’s eight again. So small and naive and he’s over him and the magazines are everywhere and he’s-- 

Downing vodka in the abandoned church. It’s always beside the worn-out mattress, the pills, and vodka. And he’d be lying if he said that he cries every time the memories chase him into the cold and warm embrace of vodka. Sometimes he looks at the glasses next to the bottles. And he stares at them. 

The exact same glasses that Ben wore, ranting about his job, pushing the glasses up his nose. 

And sometimes he wears them, sliding them on to the bridge of his nose as he feels his hair, once short and fluffy, the kind people wanted to run their fingers through. Now it's cold. strikes past his ears and clumps up in knots.

‘Just another thing to cry about.’ 

Every night is like this, wasted off a bottle and a half of vodka. He lays on the mattress, crying, grabbing the worn-out sheet covering him as he fights off nightmares and dark thoughts. 

Don’t remember it Don’t remember it Don’t remember.

Every night he lost. He gave in, and he saw names. Names with no faces

May, anything burnt tended to remind him of her, cookies and date loaf and other things. -skin--her- 

Ned, he seemed to laugh a lot, he felt rough textures of plastic blocks. 

MJ seemed snarky and thinking of her made his head feel a little fuzzy. 

And then there were names he wanted to forget,

Skip. 

He hurt, so he tried not to think about him.

And he drank more, he downed bottle after bottle. 

Peter Parker hated who he’d become. He misses when May was around, where was Stark, wasn’t he like a son to him, didn’t he like him? 

Maybe it wasn’t something he should dwell on. 

* * *

The days ran cold, in a bleak December as Peter awoke. Heavy and hungover.

He suspected the time was late, possibly 7 pm. 

Memories came back in forms of glass bottles and cut up hands. 

‘Shit’ he thought, he shoved himself off of his mattress and hurled himself towards his first aid kit. His head spun, twisting his vision in swirls and hurting his stomach. 

‘Oh god.’ he said as he clutched his head, “oh fuckkkkkk.” he groaned. 

He shoved his hand in his back pocket and shook two Vicodin in it. While he waited for it to hit, he wrapped his hands, it looked like he had gotten in a fight. 

He sighed as the meds hit. Rubbing his wrapped hands on his temples and pulling on the bottom of his tattered black hoodie. He shrugged up on his feet. Staring at his socks, then turning towards the heavy dirty lace-up boots. 

He tied them to his feet before tossing on a black scarf and covering his nose, shivering at the cold in the warehouse. He shakes his head warding off the memories of the falling warehouse and the cackling of Toomes. 

He shuffled around on the floor next to the mattress, trading Ben's glasses that he fell asleep with on for a chunky set of goggles. They looked a bit too big on his face and hid his eyes behind blue-tinted lenses. He slid them over his eyes, watching as his world turned blue. ‘Rad.’ he grinned. 

After getting dressed he grabbed his messenger bag.

While leaving he glanced at the shoebox at the foot of the mattress, happy his small ‘home’ hadn’t been raided. 

He kneeled next to the burgundy paper box, running his hands on the glued seams. He sighed and opened it, reaching his hands and fishing for something 

What that something was he didn’t know. 

His gloved hand clutched a chain, beaded. He pulled it out of the box and closed it, staring deeply at the rectangle of metal. Simply staring at the name 

‘Richard Parker.’ 

He sighed, well if this is what the gods wanted him to pick. See Peter wasn’t a religious man, but religion bought hope and hope was a welcome thing. He latched the necklace on his neck, tucking it under the black scarf. 

Fully dressed (really this time) he shuffled around in his bag. There wasn’t much in there, a few protein bars and some paper, (most likely notes that never got delivered.) it was bad for business but sometimes he just couldn’t. He grabbed the orange bottle from his back pocket and shoved it into a small opening in the lining of his bag. 

The streets were dusted with snow and if it weren’t for his tattered boots he would’ve fallen upon the slippery pavement. Peter shook his head and rid his brain of the paranoid thoughts that seem not to creep inside. 

There was a place he was heading (of course there was, peter wasn’t as so stupid as too aimlessly wander.) a small bar, he found out within 13 minutes of being there for the first time it was a merc bar, course killing is wrong, (that’s why he didn’t do it) but Weasle would tell him if people were looking for someone to send something for them. 

Peter felt bad,’ running away? Never to see your family again? Must be lonely’ he thunk. He clutched the strap of his bag. Figuring he ‘out looking a bit suspicious with a scarf over his nose and mouth and goggles strapped to his face. That was of no worry to him. 

He pressed on the door in front of him (spray painted and dirty) he cringed as his fingertips touched the grime. The poorly lit bar went silent. 

Peter shoved down his scarf and pushed the goggles upon his head. He smiled a meek smile, lifting the hand that wasn’t holding the door open to wave. 

A guy close to the door shrugged and they went back to doing what they were doing. 

He walked through the men and women clattering and drinking to get to the main bar. 

There sat a woman with dark hair, a scarf, and a leather jacket. There was a man sitting next to her, seemingly blind, and well put together. Really he looked too pristine to be sat in such a dirty place. 

“Hey kid, back already?” a man leaned over the bartop peering over his glasses to look at the 16-year-old in his bar. 

Peter rolled his eyes, “Weasel.” he stated, “I’m here aren’t I?” 

“That you are.” the man replied, setting a glass on the wood. 

Peter sat on one of the seats, feeling the gaze of the two aforementioned strangers on him. He was sure it must’ve looked weird, but he never cared much for that, (though the man in the grey suit seemed somewhat familiar. Maybe he’d seen his face in papers?) 

“There’s two guys outside for you, a tall guy with long hair and a blonde guy.” 

Peter shrugged with a small smile ‘finally work’ he thought before he left. He swapped alleys till he found the two men. When he approached the taller one with dark long hair he shoved a letter into his hands. 

Peter was in shock, looking up to the man then back to the letter. 

These men seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it (really he couldn’t.) 

“You’re a kid.” the taller man grumbled. 

“Yes,” Peter nodded. 

“I have stamps.” the taller man grumbled once more. 

Peter cocked his head to the side, confusion interrupted as the man beside the tall one snickered, the man was blond and wore purple gear and was covering his laughter with a black leather-gloved hand. 

Peter spoke, “do you know how this works?” he gently asked the embarrassed tall man. 

The man spoke, turning his eyes towards the dirt floor, “No.” he answered, simple and flushed. The blond man beside him still struggled to fight off the laughter. 

Peter hummed, he never had to tell anyone what his job was. 

“Well, you pay me, then I take this letter to the person you need it to reach.” he looked down at the letter, lovingly handled in brown paper and slightly scratchy cursive. The name above the address simply read ‘Grant, Steven’ 

The man grumbled and when Peter requested him to repeat himself he flushed and spoke, “Don’t we have? Well.” if it was possible the tall man flushed more “ fed-ex” 

The man beside the tall one- the blond one couldn’t hold his laughter in. it spilled out of his mouth and he pressed a hand to his stomach as he hacked with mirth. 

Peter slightly smiled before asking, “you are a fugitive, aren’t you?” 

The man coiled up putting up defenses as he glared. “What’s it to you?” 

Peter rolled his eyes and gently pushed the letter into his bag, treating it with the utmost gentleness. With the love he could feel radiating off the letter, he was sure this ‘Steven’ man was important to the man with long hair. (6 more months and Peter's hair was sure to reflect the mans.) 

“I take payment in cash.” he started, “whatever you have.” yes he was aware this sounded desperate but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t. 

The blond man nodded and fished something out of his pocket. It was a wad of cash, held together with a rubber band. 

He counted it. 500 dollars. 

“Holy fuck,” he muttered under his breath. 

He turned to leave the alley before he did he looked back to the two men (still swearing they looked familiar.) 

“I’ll get this to him as soon as possible,” he said, fully turning back as he began his treck back home. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you like it? let me know!   
> I also have a Tumblr at 17teenidles, my twitter is the same!

**Author's Note:**

> this is only the prologue, there will be more soon!


End file.
